Page 17 of Vargan

For a moment, we just stand there, too close, a current of something dangerous passing between us. Her eyes finally lift to meet mine again, dropping briefly to my mouth, then back up, and I feel my pulse quicken.

She straightens, pushing away from the workbench, leaving my question unanswered. "I need to get dinner started and then head back to the diner for the evening shift. She runs a hand through her hair, breaking the spell. "Helen's covering for me, but I can't leave her alone too long."

I nod, not trusting myself to speak. As she walks away, I watch her go, this strong human woman carrying the weight of a dying town on her shoulders. And I can't help but wonder why I'm the one who hates humans so much when humans have done nothing but hurt Savvy while she tries to love them back.

The thought is unsettling. I've spent my whole life with clear lines drawn—humans on one side, my kind on the other. But Savvy blurs those lines. Makes me question things I've always believed to be true.

I turn back to the truck, but my focus is gone. All I can think about is the way she looked at me just now, like she understood my loss because it mirrors her own. Like maybe, we're not so different after all.

And that scares me more than anything Victor Hargrove or his nephew could do to me.

Because if Savvy isn't like other humans—if she's genuinely good in a way I haven't allowed myself to believe humans can be—then what else have I been wrong about? What other walls have I built that don't need to be there?

I slam the hood of the truck closed with more force than necessary, startling a bird from the rafters of the garage. I need to get back to work on the bike. I need to get out of Shadow Ridge before I start caring too much about what happens here. Before I start caring too much about her.

Because caring makes you vulnerable. And vulnerability gets you killed. That's the first lesson they taught us in the camps, and it's one I've never forgotten.

Until now.

Chapter Six

Savvy

Aspring storm is rolling in with dark clouds promising rain as I chop vegetables for a salad. The radio plays an old country song—something about sunshine and sweet tea—and I find myself humming along, feeling lighter than I have in... well, longer than I can remember.

Willie is at Jacob's for the night, begging for a sleepover after I mentioned Vargan would be staying a few more days. I didn't fight it. Sometimes space is what we both need. Besides, Jacob's father is a good influence and he hates Victor Hargrove about as much as I do.

I glance at the two cuts of meat marinating on the counter—steak for Vargan, chicken for me. I read online that orcs are big meat and veggie eaters, their metabolism requiring more protein and nutrients than humans. Not that Vargan has complained about anything I've made. Every time I ask what he'd like for dinner, he just says "whatever you're making is fine" in that deep, rumbling voice that does strange things to my insides.

But tonight I'm determined to make something he'll really enjoy—my way of thanking him for working on Dad's old truck, and trying to make peace with Willie. It feels good having someone care about the things that matter to me, even if it's just fixing an engine and a lost boy.

Through the kitchen window, I catch a flash of movement on the street—a black pickup truck crawling past the house, too slow to be just passing through. Victor's truck. My muscles tense instinctively, but it keeps going, disappearing around the corner. Still, the message is clear: he's watching. Waiting.

Thunder rumbles in the distance as I toss the salad—romaine, spinach, tomatoes, cucumbers, bell peppers, avocado, walnuts. The back door opens, and I turn to see Vargan duck through the doorway, his massive frame filling the kitchen entrance.

He's a mess—dirt and oil smudged across his green skin, hair tossed and wild from running his dirty fingers through it, t-shirt clinging to his broad chest with sweat. He should look disgusting. Instead, he looks... God, I need to get out more.

Vargan crosses to the sink, reaching for the soap with filthy hands. I grab a dish towel and playfully swat at his arm.

"Don't you dare get my kitchen dirty while I’m cooking," I scold, though I'm smiling as I say it. "You need a full shower."

He looks down at himself, then at me, one corner of his mouth quirking up, revealing his lower tusk. It shouldn't be cute. But it is. "After dinner. Whatever you're making smells too good to wait."

"Nope." I plant myself between him and the stove, arms crossed. "You're not getting a bite of my special meal until you're showered and dressed. I've got standards, you know."

Vargan raises his hands in surrender, his eyes bright with amusement. It's not lost on me that this mountain of a beast could move me with one hand, but it's the fact that he wouldn'tdare that sends a thrill trailing down my spine. "Yes, ma'am." He pauses, nostrils flaring slightly. "Victor drive by?"

I blink, surprised. "How did you—"

"I can smell him," Vargan says, his expression darkening. "Engine oil, expensive cologne, and arrogance."

"It's nothing new," I say, trying to sound casual. "He likes to remind me he's watching. He does it to everyone holding out."

Vargan's jaw tightens, but he doesn't push. "I'll be quick," he says, heading for the stairs.

As he disappears upstairs, I take a shaky breath. Having Vargan notice Victor's surveillance makes it feel more real somehow—more threatening. For years, I've pretended it doesn't bother me, that I'm untouchable. But the truth is, I'm terrified every day.

I set the table while the steak sizzles on the grill pan—plates in the center, forks on the left, knives on the right. The same way mom showed me years ago. Even after she passed, I made sure Dad and Willie and I kept the same routines and practices she'd instilled in us. We always set the table for dinner, always made our beds in the morning, and always, always stood up for what was right.

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